


Personal and Professional Relations

by DesireeArmfeldt



Category: due South
Genre: Episode Tag, F/M, Gift Fic, Relationship Negotiation, Sexual Tension
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-12-13
Updated: 2014-12-13
Packaged: 2018-02-28 21:03:11
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,978
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2746976
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DesireeArmfeldt/pseuds/DesireeArmfeldt
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After All The Queen's Horses, Thatcher and Fraser reach an understanding.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Personal and Professional Relations

**Author's Note:**

  * For [tinadolphin](https://archiveofourown.org/users/tinadolphin/gifts).



> Thanks to luzula for beta.

_R-E-D-S-U-I-T-S-Y-O-U_

Squinting up at the crimson-uniformed figure signaling from the roof of the judicial building, Meg reads Fraser’s message and smiles before she thinks better of it. Then she frowns, because what sort of response is that to a direct order from one’s commanding officer? Even if the order was only “pick up coffee on your way back to the Consulate.” And even if he did acknowledge the order before proceeding on to. . .other topics. The point is, said topic is an inappropriate one for a junior officer to raise with his superior.

And, in fact, he is actually breaking an order, as well: not the coffee one, but the one she gave him after the. . .incident. . .on the train. She told him to erase. . .that incident. . .from his memory, and he’s done nothing of the kind. He admitted as much this morning, to her face! And now he has the nerve to explicitly remind her of it!

She wouldn’t really blame him for not being able to forget. A kiss on the roof of a moving train full of nuclear explosives is, admittedly, quite memorable; she’s certainly had trouble putting it out of her own mind. But that’s exactly the point! Granted, she can’t command his thoughts. But she can and does command his actions, so if he can’t forget, he should damn well at least _behave_ like he’s forgotten.

A man who has forgotten an incident doesn’t go blabbering about it to reporters. He doesn’t drop his gaze and lean in so close she can feel his warm breath on her cheek as he murmurs hesitantly that no, he _hasn’t_ forgotten. And he certainly doesn’t go around sending _flirtatious semaphore messages_ about it in an extremely conspicuous public location in the middle of (yet another) media circus. All right, so it’s unlikely that the average American passer-by can translate semaphore in real time. But it’s the principle that counts.

And then, there's the content of the message. _Red suits you._ What kind of a compliment is that? A reminder of their connection on the train, yes, obviously. A sincere expression of admiration, yes, that too. Fraser’s sincerity is impossible to mistake. But it’s also a not-so-subtle dig at her career and lifestyle choices. Fraser admires her _when she’s in uniform._ Which she’s worn perhaps two or three times in the year he’s been working for her. Fraser _prefers_ her in uniform, with a gun in her hand—or throwing eggs at criminals, because that’s what law enforcement always ends up looking like when Fraser’s involved. When she’s in uniform, taking action in a crisis, then she’s suddenly worthy of his attention. _Then_ he has feelings for her.

Well, who the hell does he think he is, to judge her like that? Yes, Meg is good in the field and has the medals to prove it, thank you very much. Yes, she’s skilled with a gun, or an egg if for some bizarre reason it comes to that. Yes, she can distract a captor into underestimating her and then coldcock him. And she’s _also_ a skilled negotiator and administrator, with excellent prospects for a diplomatic career, and if Constable Fraser thinks that’s an easy thing for a woman in the RCMP to achieve, he ought to damn well try it himself sometime. But apparently her chosen career path makes her a sellout, less than a ‘real’ RCMP officer.

Because in Fraser’s mind, a ‘real’ RCMP officer is some sort of gold-hearted action hero. Try to save Fraser—and the RCMP—from a 10 million dollar lawsuit brought on by his own hapless meddling in other people’s business, and he responds with near-insubordination and looks at you like you’ve drowned his puppy. But put on a red uniform and leap into action to avert a nuclear explosion, and _then_ those bottomless blue eyes look at you with desire, and those strong, expressive lips are pressed passionately against yours, and that pure heart is hammering as hard as your own, and. . .

Damn the man! How does he always manage to do this to her? He gets her thinking in circles, questioning her own motivations, until she doesn’t know what she wants or where she stands. He’s not even _here_ at the moment, but he’s trampling all over her thoughts in his spit-polished high browns (and who wears the dress serge three days a week, for God’s sake?). Why can’t the man just do his job and let her do hers in peace?

Speaking of which, she’s arrived back at the Consulate, where she has work to get done, damn it. Between dealing with the press this morning, and attending the trial, and then getting caught up in the unforeseen hostage situation, she’s behind on several pressing matters. And she didn’t get where she is today by letting an admittedly handsome but completely infuriating man distract her from her duties. But the minute she puts on her reading glasses, she hears Fraser’s oh-so-innocent-and-polite voice mocking her for being vain enough to pretend she doesn’t need them when anyone’s looking. Especially a handsome, infuriating—argh!

A knock at her door startles her half out of her seat. She looks up, glaring, to see Fraser standing there, of course. With a cup of coffee in his hand. Of course.

“Your coffee. Ma’am. Cappuccino, skim milk, half a sugar.” As he speaks, he reverts—retreats—into respectful-subordinate mode. Features schooled; posture parade-stiff; alert for the slightest command. It’s seeing him change that makes her realize that when he first came in, he’d been wearing a real human expression, one she's never seen from him before. A kind of determined hope.

Damn it all. Now that he’s disappeared behind that mask of deferential courtesy, she wants the other Fraser back. The Fraser she glimpsed for a second or two this morning, before Cooper blundered in with the coffee and interrupted their. . .moment. The Fraser from the egg factory, who blushed when she made him take his tunic off, and then got his revenge on her with a practical joke. The Fraser from the train, who mistook her natural body odor for perfume.

“Thank you, Fraser,” she says, taking the coffee from him. Just the way she likes it. Of course. She can’t remember if she ever even told him how she takes her coffee, but he’s never made a mistake.

He nods in acknowledgement and stands there at parade rest, awaiting further instructions or dismissal. She pinches the bridge of her nose. It’s tempting to dismiss him. . .but she doesn’t actually want to, and she didn’t get where she is today by putting off difficult tasks.

She just doesn’t know what to _say_ to him.

“Fraser.”

“Yes, ma’am?” Polite, neutral voice, giving away nothing.

“About our conversation this morning.”

“Yes?”

“We were interrupted.”

“Ah, yes, I believe so.”

No, she’s not going to get any help from him. And, fair enough: he’s already put himself on the line with his admission this morning and the semaphore this afternoon. And they’re both on duty, in her office, and she’s his superior officer. Damn it all.

“Fraser, I gave an FBI officer a bloody nose this afternoon because he called me _Darling._ ”

His straight-faced expression doesn’t change, but his eyes twinkle—with amusement? approval?

“Understood.” The voice is all business, the stance as formal as ever, but the eyes tell her it’s the man from the egg-factory who’s listening to her now from behind the façade.

“ _Do_ you understand?”

“I. . .while I wouldn’t presume to claim to read your mind—” He hesitates briefly; she wonders whether he was about to call her _Ma’am_. “Yes, I believe I do understand what you’re saying.”

“And. . . ?”

His eyes search her face, setting her heart racing stupidly.

“I imagine that it must be difficult for a female RCMP officer to rise to a position commensurate with her skills,” he says carefully. “And that such a person would feel—justifiably—obliged to be particularly careful of. . .romantic entanglements, particularly with male fellow-officers. Or of allowing herself into a position where she might be forced to choose between her. . .feelings. . .and her personal integrity. She might feel that allowing any sort of familiarity from such a man—even one whose intentions were entirely respectful—might leave her open to the sort of prejudice and slander she had been forced to battle throughout her career.”

She hadn’t expected that just hearing a man say it out loud would choke up her throat and make her eyes sting like this. She struggles to keep her voice as calm and neutral as his as she replies:

“And what do you imagine. . .a person in that position. . .might feel about a male subordinate who had difficulty respecting her authority and following her orders when they conflicted with his sense of—of—higher purpose—”

His eyes widen briefly, then his gaze drops to the floor. Whether that’s an acknowledgement or an evasion, she can’t tell. She presses on:

“. . .And then expressed. . .feelings of a nature that. . .” Oh, for God’s sake, she sounds like a blithering idiot! Why can’t she just spit what she means, clearly and straightforwardly?

“I suppose she might feel that such feelings were. . .inappropriate, at best,” Fraser says softly, still looking at his boots. “Perhaps even offensive. Under the circumstances.” He draws a deep breath and raises his eyes to hers like a man facing a firing squad. “She might feel that such a man owed her an apology.”

She might, and he does, but now that he’s actually offering, it’s. . .not very satisfying. Almost disappointing. Not because he doesn’t mean it. He’s as sincere now as he was on the train. But it’s the wrong apology. His feelings _don’t_ offend her. And if she accepts his apology, he might actually stop.

“She might. . .” Meg says slowly. Her face is hot, but at least she’s not the only person blushing, here. “But even more than that, she might want. . .”

Fraser’s waiting, all his attention fixed on her, looking like he honestly wants to hear the magic charm that will solve the problem of the two of them. Too bad she has no idea.

What the hell does she want? What would make her feel better?

“She might want to know. . .she might want some evidence that. . .that things might be different in the future.” Her cheeks heat up even more at the foolishness, the incoherence, of that utterance.

But Fraser’s nodding slowly, like she’s said something profound.

“And this desired change,” he asks. “Would it be in the. . .the expressed feelings, or in the. . .professional relationship?”

“I’d say there’s evidence that neither of those things is likely to change.” The sharpness of her tone makes his eyes widen. It takes her by surprise, too, but there all her anger is, welling up again. “Can you honestly tell me I’m mistaken?”

“I. . .perhaps not,” he says quietly. He manages to look simultaneously apologetic and completely self-assured. It’s an expression that usually makes her want to throw something at him, but there’s a note of sadness in his voice that softens her irritation. “You’re not the only commanding officer who has judged that I have difficulty with authority. I’m afraid that despite my respect for the regulations and traditions of the RCMP, I. . .well, I’ve never quite. . .fit in as well as might have been desired.”

 _Constable Fraser is an odd duck._ So said the notes left by Meg's predecessor in charge of the Chicago Consulate. Of course, Superintendent Moffat was a pompous, blithering idiot, so his opinions should be taken with a grain of salt, if not thrown wholesale out the nearest window. However, as it turned out, Constable Fraser is, in fact, an extremely odd duck.

Impeccably polite; diplomatic and sensitive to subtle social signals one moment, oblivious and socially awkward the next. Smart as a whip, highly perceptive; and also naïve and pigheadedly idealistic as though he’d stepped out of a Capra movie, unwilling to acknowledge distasteful realities. A mere Constable with fourteen years of distinguished service—no, not distinguished, that’s exactly the point. His record is full of incredible achievements, self-written reprimands, and lukewarm performance reviews. While Meg herself is in Chicago as the first step on the ladder of a diplomatic career—proof of her success at gracefully avoiding situations where she’d be forced to choose between obedient performance and her own integrity—Fraser is apparently here as a punishment for bringing his father’s murderer to justice. He’s foundered his career with his inability to blend in or keep his head down. Probably the only reason he’s still employed is that he’s too damn excellent at his job to let go. Which can’t possibly make anyone like him any better.

“Isn’t that a lonely way to live?” Meg asks.

“Yes,” says Fraser, looking her straight in the eye. “It’s lonely to be in the minority. To be constantly pressured to be no more than what others want you to be. To be forced to choose every day between doing one’s job to the best of one’s ability with honor, and the approval of one’s peers. And supervisors.”

“And subordinates,” she counters, because even if they share certain experiences, she can’t give ground, not on this point.

And Fraser bows his head, conceding.

“I don’t do it to insult you,” he says. “It—it isn’t about you at all. It’s simply that there are certain principles I can’t compromise. Not even for the sake of someone who. . .whose good opinion I. . .whose feelings mean. . .that is. . .”

Now it’s her turn to rescue him from verbal floundering.

“Not even for me.”

“Not even for you,” he acknowledges. “I’m sorry. It’s not in my nature. But as you said on—on a persistently memorable occasion—your nature isn’t so different from mine. We both wear the same uniform.”

“Yes, we do.” She gets up, walks around the desk, and puts her hand on his serge-covered bicep. He flashes her a startled look. She presses her advantage. “And to you, this uniform means what, exactly?”

“Maintaining the right. Upholding justice and the law. Protecting the innocent.” His eyes hold hers, like he’s shining a pair of searchlights into her soul. His arm is warm and solid under the serge.

“Jumping in front of moving trucks,” she counters, looking right back at him. “Getting the government of Canada sued for millions of dollars. Jumping off of roofs. Rescuing crackpots from the consequences of their own bad decisions. Breaking out of incubators. Wrestling armed criminals on the roofs of speeding trains. Defusing wearable bombs.”

“All means to a worthy end. Also. . .” His eyes are warm, too. It would be very easy for a woman to get lost in those eyes.

“Also?”

“Fun,” he murmurs gravely, while his eyes invite her to laugh.

“Fun?”

“Exhilarating. Gratifying. Compelling. Occasionally humorous.”

“Law enforcement is not supposed to be fun,” she tells him. But her memory offers up the wind in her hair, the satisfaction of her fist connecting with Agent Ford’s nose, the _splat_ of the eggs hitting their targets. The look on Fraser’s face as he realized she’d only made him strip down so she could cannibalize his tunic to make lockpicks. And Fraser can tell what she’s thinking, damn him, because he doesn’t flinch or stiffen up at her stern tone. He just keeps looking down at her, poker-faced, eyes smiling.

“So I’ve often been told. I’ve also been given to understand that my definition of _fun_ is a bit. . .eccentric. By most people’s standards.”

“By any reasonable standards.”

“Perhaps so.”

They both know what Meg does for fun: evening wear and opera, dinner and drinks, one-night stands with influential men who are cultured and sexy and utterly forgettable. Maybe a trip to the spa if she’s feeling self-indulgent or just wants to get away from her brain for a while. None of which has ever _exhilarated_ her like facing down a gang of gun-wielding criminals, while she herself was armed only with a crate of raw eggs. And even the most athletic, elaborate sex with a Peruvian Ambassador never made her heart race like that one kiss from Fraser.

Her heart’s jittering now, because the twinkle in his his eyes has been replaced by that hope she saw earlier, before she scared it into hiding.

“So. . .” she begins. “What if you had a superior officer who understood what the uniform means to you and was willing to. . .overlook your unorthodox methods and your penchant for leaving a trail of mayhem in your wake in your pursuit of justice? Someone willing to back you up when you had good cause, and to act as. . .an interface, or let’s say, a buffer, between you and the political realities?”

“That would be. . .I’ve rarely found myself in such a fortunate situation, you understand.” He speaks slowly, thoughtfully, as the hope blooms openly on his face. “I would be very grateful to have such a generous and dedicated commander, of course. And. . .I would make every effort not to abuse my position of trust, and to ensure that she was kept informed about any situations that might arise that might require, ah, damage-control on her part, or otherwise make her job more difficult.”

“And you would continue to perform such duties as she assigned you to the best of your ability? Even the ones that struck you as trivial, or dull, or overly. . .worldly?”

“Of course. All of us who wear the uniform are duty-bound to uphold the honor of the RCMP and facilitate its day-to-day operations. I take all my duties equally seriously.”

That’s almost ludicrously true, she has to admit. Skimping on his assigned tasks has never been the problem.

“Some people might wonder whether you have equal respect for all of those duties, however. Or for your fellow-officers who choose to devote their time and attention to day-to-day operations and diplomacy, rather than to hands-on law enforcement.”

“I hope that a commander as generous and understanding as you describe would also have the insight to understand that I deeply respect her diplomatic and administrative skills and her dedication to her duties. Even if I don’t always understand the intricacies and trade-offs her job entails. . .or the vital role that dry-cleaning plays in international relations.”

He’s rebuking her, the poker-faced bastard, the way he always does when he doesn’t approve of her actions. But. . .possibly he’s teasing her, as well.

“Oh, it plays a number of roles,” she says, trying to match his deadpan tone. “Dress makes an impression, before any words are spoken. One might say it's a language all its own. There’s a world of difference between the message communicated by a pink suit versus a black one, for instance. Or between a blue uniform and a brown one.”

He blinks, then gives a tiny little nod, acknowledging the hit.

“Also, it’s our duty as representatives of the RCMP, to maintain an impeccable appearance, whether or not we happen to be wearing the uniform on a given day. To uphold the honor of the agency. Now, it is also true,” Meg goes on, because she can be as big a man as he can. “That when faced with a subordinate who is. . .difficult, but never quite crosses the line into actionable subordination, a creative commanding officer might assign menial errands as a way of getting her point across. But I imagine that a commander who felt she truly had the respect and trust of her subordinate would see no need to use such methods.”

“That does seem highly plausible,” Fraser agrees. “And, of course, if such a commander also happened to have a taste for active fieldwork—despite her many administrative and diplomatic responsibilities—it would be an honor and a privilege to have her work with me on the law-enforcement side as often as her schedule and inclination permitted.”

“As a commanding officer?”

He opens his mouth then closes it. No, she didn’t think so. He’s too honest to pretend he can offer that.

“Of course I always obey the orders of my superiors to the fullest extent of my ability,” he says. “But as you pointed out, I do often find myself in unorthodox situations where, ah, non-regulation techniques are called for. Sometimes outside of official working hours, and almost always outside of the RCMP’s official jurisdiction. A commanding officer might find it simpler to lend assistance as a private individual, rather than in an official capacity. As a friend and ally.”

“As your sidekick?”

He looks first appalled at that, then. . .ashamed?

“As a—a partner.”

“In that case, I hope you make a better partner than you do a subordinate.”

“Ah. . .not always,” he admits. “But it’s a failure of execution, not intention. I can at least promise never to call you _Darling._ ”

And the thing is, she knows that’s the truth. God knows the man has his faults, but despite the Victorian manners, he actually isn’t a male chauvinist caveman. That night in the egg factory, that day on the train, he treated her the way he treats Detective Vecchio, or anyone else he respects enough to work with. Like a sidekick, yes; but not like a girl.

“Well,” she says, as much to herself as to him, “That might be enough to work with.”

She’s still clutching his arm, and suddenly that feels like a strange and awkward thing to be doing, so she lets go, backs up a couple of steps and offers him her hand instead. They shake formally, sealing the deal.

And then they just stand there looking at each other. Fraser’s smiling at her, but there’s a question in the smile. _Now what? Where the hell do we go from here?_

And she has no idea how to answer. An agreement to try to treat each other like human beings—like friends—doesn’t even begin to address the semaphore message, and the damned train, and what they might have done or said this morning if they hadn’t been in front of witnesses. Just the thought is enough to fill her head with embarrassingly vivid fantasies. She wants. . .she wants, she doesn’t know what exactly, let alone what he wants, or what to do about it.

Though come to that, maybe _one step at a time_ isn’t the worst answer in the world.

“You’re. . .you can go now,” she tells him.

“Ah, yes.” He blinks several times, licks his lower lip, then clears his throat. “Understood.”

He turns to go, giving her a lovely view of his straight back and broad shoulders, though unfortunately (or perhaps fortunately, at the moment) the dress tunic camouflages certain other key attributes. She shakes her head sharply, trying to force her thoughts back into a more appropriate track. The uniform may be their common ground—she’ll grant Fraser that—but she can’t think about his ass while they’re both wrapped up in red serge straightjackets, bound to their relative ranks and their mutual professional responsibilities. She needs to get him out of the uniform—wait, that’s not what she means—well, except that actually, it’s exactly what she means. . .

With his hand on the doorknob, he turns back to look at her. If he notices that she’s blushing ( _again_ ), he politely pretends not to.

“Ah. . .may I ask. . . ?”

She waves a hand at him, granting permission, urging him to get on with it.

“What would you prefer to be called? In a non-professional context, that is. Just in case it. . .well, just in case.”

An absurd image flashes through her mind: the two of them, naked and sweaty, tangled in the sheets and in each other’s bodies, tenderly whispering _Fraser. . .Ma’am. . ._ between kisses. Except that the urge to laugh is overpowered by the heat of those imaginary kisses.

“Meg,” she tells him.


End file.
